


All the Masked Men

by kaylacscott (SilverStreaksofStardust)



Category: In Real Life (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:03:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverStreaksofStardust/pseuds/kaylacscott
Summary: Tomichael or whatever the bromance name is. I think of it as “tom-ih-chael” kinda like “atomic” but now it looks like “to michael” which is strange.Fun fact: This was supposed to be a one-shot but I feel there’s a lot more to be written so we’ll see where this story goes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomichael or whatever the bromance name is. I think of it as “tom-ih-chael” kinda like “atomic” but now it looks like “to michael” which is strange.
> 
> Fun fact: This was supposed to be a one-shot but I feel there’s a lot more to be written so we’ll see where this story goes.

Everything looks different since Michael Conor last visited, and he’s concerned. Despite the house being of comfortable size, the living room is chilly with only a television and a couch. A oriental rug is thoughtfully placed in the middle of the room, but the walls are void of decor and colour, liveliness unseen in nothing but the small photographs hung on the mantel.

Michael remembers there being a second couch, and chairs that Thomas had exclaimed were "totally vintage" but those are gone. The window is obscured by the curtains: an oddly out-of-place shade of pale blue that makes him smile a bit.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he takes a brief look at the mantel over the fireplace, which holds pictures of friends and family.

He feels a flicker of disappointment when he can’t see himself among the loved ones—but not that it'll make any sense if there was. They aren’t as close as they were before.

"So, what brings you here?" The voice is terse, and Michael turns around. He lets his arms drop to his side.

Thomas Crane, the aspiring photographer whom he met six years ago. Now there was something different, a shift in the demeanour. The type of child-like wonder and humour is gone, faded away and replaced with newfound knowledge. Calculated, cautious, cold.

The blond sits on the couch, placing two mugs on the table. He’s not one to use coasters—it was a bit trivial, he once stated, unless he wanted to feel sophisticated.

 _Jeez_. Michael can recount the time when he and Thomas met—when it was only them, slowly opening up to one another. And whether or not there is denial, both changed the other person's life from the start. 

They were just two kids back then, following their dreams and believing in the same message. Both of them together were a force to be reckoned with. That is, until the band went on a Europe tour. They got a photographer, too, but it wasn’t Thomas.

"I have a proposition."

"Hm." Thomas is unreadable. "Interesting. Never heard you say that word to me."

"There’s a reason I called you." Michael licks his lips, hesitating. It’s clear that he’s unwelcome; he’s not blind to the growing tension. 

"You like tea? It’s Earl Gray." Thomas pushes a cup forward, but he says it forcibly, not like an offering.

Michael stares at the empty space beside Thomas, but decides better and sits on the floor. "Do you have coke?"

"There’s only fucking tea. Deal with it."

The brief distraction of cooling down his drink and looking away from the steely gaze is enough to at least gain composure. Michael places his drink down. "I've heard you didn’t make videos anymore. Why?"

"That’s why we're here? You could’ve asked my _friends_. They know why."

Michael looks down at the glass surface of the table, condensation doing its job. He wishes he could vanish as easily, too. He knew it was a bad idea to come. "I’d rather hear from you."

"Maybe I wanted to do something else. People change. How are you doing with your band?"

They both know the answer. They still follow each other on their social media accounts, but never engaged in posts. Even when fans questioned about their collaboration, Thomas vaguely responded that his brand, Real Nobody, was taking an hiatus due to "unforeseeable events".

"The band broke up. Eight months ago."

"Good things come to an end eventually."

Michael looks up, reflecting back to when he was nineteen. He wasn’t so different from now, but maybe a little more lost. He thought he found a purpose, but the music industry is a brutal place. The band wasn't famous, per say, but occasionally get recognized. While the fanbase has been steadily growing here, dwindling there, they felt that they did everything they wanted to do together. 

"You still had my number?"

Michael pulls out of his scrambling thoughts. "Yeah—I thought I would need it." His shoulders tighten, back hunched a bit. "I was wondering if we could work together."

Thomas lets a sigh drop from his lips, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes. "I see. Why do you want us to work together?"

”We both have vision. All those years ago, we were talking about helping those who felt that they didn't belong. We're like them, and if I create raps and you direct the videos, we can—"

"Conor..." The younger man blinks at his name that is finally said. "That’s what I believed in. But now I’m done."

"Are you kidding me? Don’t you remember those days? Your brand was taking off and we _helped_ people." 

"That was before you left." Thomas' voice shakes—with impending rage or emotion, it isn't clear. "You never once looked back."

"That’s _bull_. You were too busy with projects and your own things."

"Do you remember that night?"

The switch of the topic quickly led to another, more personal one. Michael swallows, pulse beating faster. He knows. He remembers the rolling movie credits of _Forrest Gump_ , the taste of buttered popcorn on his tongue chased down with alcohol.

_He was sitting on the couch—right where Thomas is now, a blanket wrapped around him. He must’ve got a bit tipsy; that’s why he was staring intently at Thomas, taking in the blond hair tied back (a look he personally thought looked totally badass) and mouth that occasionally curved upward and a dimple forming._

_"Bro, are you okay?" Thomas had inquired, laughing at the slightly dazed look in the brunet's eyes._

_And that’s when Michael kissed his friend._

The quick jump back into reality sends a faint pinkness scattering across Michael's face. "I don’t remember much."

"Huh. Typical."

_After the kiss, Michael gave a breathless laugh at the shock on Thomas' face. "You’re totally sus."_

_"Oh really?" Thomas smirked, and leaned in closer. "You seemed to be enjoying that."_

_The laughter disappeared. Michael seemed to sober up, and quickly stood._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"I need to go home."_

_"I thought you were—" Thomas quickly followed his friend who seemed unsteady, holding out a hand._

_"Don’t touch me!" Michael shouted. "I need to go."_

Michael feels a wrack of shame erupting inside of him, and he looks back down. 

"Need a reminder?"

"No. I-I remember." Michael was so mortified over what happened—just the thought of seeing Thomas sent a fresh new wave of humiliation. He kissed his friend; it meant something. "Don’t talk about it."

"Did you regret it? Kissing me?"

" _Don’t_." Michael closes his eyes. "It was nothing, let’s get over it. I was drunk and stupid."

Silence. Then, "I think you need to leave."

His eyes open. "What?"

"This message _we're_  saying—we have to be real with ourselves. You know perfectly well what a mask is. It hides your imperfections; it's protection. A mask can be anyone you choose. And right now, you’re wearing the mask of a dickhead that is fucking fake."

 _Fake_. Michael's blood boils. "You don’t know anything. I’m always real with myself and to others, you’re just like everyone else!"

"Everyone else? Well, that might just be a good thing because you’re in a category of your own. Superior to the rest of us, huh? Of course you couldn’t care about a guy who needed you and was so fucking grateful, doing everything so you could be fucking happy."

"What are you taking about?"

Thomas rises up now, and due to the intimidating stance, Michael also stands.

"How do you think I felt when you paid for my meals and bought me things?” Thomas' eyes blazed. “I felt so pathetic and... and you never wanted anything from me! I didn't have anything to give you. And the thing is, you didn't need me. You would’ve got here all on your own, making your name. Was I just a charity case?"

"That’s not true. We’re friends; you don't owe me anything." Michael instinctually took a step back when Thomas approaches closer. "You did it all on your own."

Thomas reaches out and tugs the front of Michael's shirt, pulling him closer. Their faces are metres apart, enough to sense the anger rolling off both of them. "Be honest. Did you ever think about me? After that night."

"Of course I did." Michael's throat squeezes, unable to say anything more because then he’ll break. 

Thomas releases his hold, taking a step back. "It’s late. If you want, you can go home."

Michael bites his lip so hard, preventing any stir of emotion, the metallic taste distracting, but he fails. He turns away, but Thomas holds onto his arm, gently swinging him so they’re face-to-face.

Due to Thomas being shorter, it’s difficult to hide his face. Michael looks up at the ceiling instead, blinking back tears that escape anyway.

Wordlessly, Thomas directs Michael on the couch and places a blanket over him. 

"Don’t leave in the morning, okay?" 

Michael says nothing, and once there's only darkness, he wraps the blanket tighter around himself, losing warmth.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Michael finds himself with a pile of blankets stacked on top of him. Shaking them off, he manages to crash onto the ground due to the cramped space on the couch.

 _Fuck_. It isn’t at the minor pain, but the memory of last night.

Michael knows it was a mistake to pretend that nothing between them happened, like Thomas will forget the damned kiss. Honestly, if someone kissed him on the mouth, he wouldn’t forget it, either. What’s worse is that Thomas _is_ right—he ran away and never looked back.

How could he face it? That he likes guys, or maybe just one, and _holyshitheshouldn't_.

He stands up with a slow exhale, as if expelling all of the worries.

 _Does he really regret the kiss, though? The memory of the lips, soft and inviting—Thomas didn’t pull away_...

But the glimmer of hope dissipates because they kinda hate each other and Thomas has to be with someone by now.

 _Fuck_. He runs a hand through his hair, craving for a shower and a fresh change of clothes. He’ll probably feel a bit better, itching for the routine he usually does back in his own home.

He attempts to fold the blankets back neatly on the couch but gives up on the fourth one. Thomas must’ve given them during the night, which shows there is at least some level of concern. He kind of hopes that the blond is downstairs, while at the same time is mentally preparing himself for conversation starters. 

If there is any more tension—well, they can settle it like adults.

But there is silence, nothing evident of another presence. A weight of loneliness settles heavy in Michael’s chest. He should be used to it.

He moves to the kitchen. Surprisingly there’s a sticky note on the fridge, the neat penmanship easy to read.

**Going to buy groceries. Feel free to make yourself breakfast.**

**\- Thomas**

Michael opens the fridge, finding a carton of milk, eggs, and vegetables. He makes a face before scouring through the cupboards, mostly consisting of tea and boxes of crackers. There’s several boxes of cereal stored in the second cupboard above the sink, and he smiles upon discovering the cocoa pebbles. The morning seems a bit brighter.

Fixing himself a bowl, he thinks back when Thomas was with the band on the American Idol Tour. He’s practically lived on this cereal, stating it was the best, while Thomas disagreed.

Grabbing the milk, he levels it to a perfect ratio (really, it’s a skill to put enough cereal and milk but not that it’s too much or too low). 

Just when he heads to the direction of the dining table, something brushes his leg. Looking down, he finds a orange tabby cat. 

 _Thomas has a pet cat?_ Michael can’t help but grin. He expected a dog, maybe a golden retriever or even a chihuahua.

”Hey boy. Or girl.” Michael reaches down to pet, but the cat quickly skitters away in a blur. “Huh.” Michael is briefly entertained with the animal, but focuses back on eating. 

It’s probably a shitty thing to leave before saying a goodbye, so he figures he'll watch a movie or read a book for the time remaining.

Yet curiosity wavers inside of him, the idea of being alone giving opportunity to search around. Of course he should respect Thomas’ privacy. But just looking around isn’t bad. 

Michael looks for the cat, his only witness, who calmly looks up at him. The green eyes almost seem to reprimand him, but Michael makes his decision.

Finishing his food, he returns to the living room. Opening the curtains, light spills in. He can feel the energy—people bustling, the streetlights flashing, cars moving—the entire life of a city. No doubt it will be beautiful at nighttime, where the stars come out and the life shifts a bit, to something wilder.

Yet he’s used to the noises, and the reality that behind beauty there is also darkness. 

With Thomas’ apartment being on the top floor, there is also a sunroom, but Michael finds there are only magazines scattered around, and a table with a wilted flower.

Michael isn’t so sure what he’s looking for anymore. He wants to see anything different about Thomas, but also evidence of himself.

 _There might be photos_ , he thinks, though there’s a slim chance if Thomas no longer considers him a friend.

_"You could’ve asked my friends. They know why."_

"Meow.”

Michael looks at the cat who followed him.

“Hey again. If you won’t let me pet you, at least let me see your name.” Michael crouches down, leaving his arms slack in order for the cat not to runaway again. “Hey...” he squints at the black collar. _Lucky_. 

The cat blinks, and then walks away. Realizing Michael isn’t following, it looks back expectantly.

Michael slowly rises, and follows the cat all the way to a door slightly ajar. 

“ _Meow_.” The cat slides through the door, disappearing on the other side.

Giving a furtive glance, Michael opens the door wider. It isn’t a bedroom, but a storage room with boxes and suitcases. It’s disorganized, looking like it hasn’t been touched in months.

Michael already feels guilt, heart hammering with the idea of an angry Thomas. _It’ll create even further mistrust_.

”Meow.” The cat is perched on a cardboard box, licking its paw in a calm manner.

”Okay. Uh. I think we should go.” The cat ignores Michael. Typical.

Michael closes the door a bit, figuring the cat can squeeze through again, and heads to the main floor once more.

* * *

By the time Thomas arrives back home, it’s the afternoon.

The blond gazes around, noting the curtains are open and it looks nice for once. He expects that Michael already left, but spots the man on the couch, reading something.

Thomas drops his keys and grocery bag on the counter. “Boo.”

Michael briefly looks up, before looking down. “I didn't know you read _Robinson Crusoe_.”

”That's actually my friend's. Came by last week and left it. I've been meaning to return it."

"Oh.” Michael closes the book. “So is this friend... uh, are you two close?”

Thomas easily laughs, and approaches closer, taking the book away. “Yeah. Aren't friends supposed to be close?” He sits down on the couch, making Michael shift over a bit. “We met in university, but of course I decided it was a waste of my time. He still keeps me up to date with the Professor. Apparently there’s a twenty page essay."

"Okay." Michael looks anywhere than at Thomas, which is honestly frustrating.

”Look. Don’t be embarrassed, okay? I missed talking to you."

Michael slowly looks back, and their eyes connect. There is something almost fragile-looking, when Thomas analyzes the younger man. So incomprehensible, yet the bags underneath Michael's eyes and hair that is  messy, almost uncaring.

It pains Thomas that both of them look like this years later; so lost and confused. Of course they won't have the world figured out, but they really did have something together. The world isn't ready for them, at least not yet.

”So. Bye, I guess. Thanks for letting me crash over,” Michael says.

 _So it’s gonna be like that?_ Thomas feels disappointment. “Whatever.”

”Listen, I'll talk to you again. I promise.” Michael manages a rare smile.

”I’ll be waiting, I guess.” Thomas watches his friend—or whatever the word is—leave, and he can’t help but feel regret. _It shouldn’t be like this_. “Michael,” he quickly says, causing the retreating figure to glance back. “You better call me.”

The brunet says nothing, but there’s a small, affirmative nod.


End file.
